


Dearly Departed Souls

by DominusFero



Series: Tales From Demysarria [3]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Celestial AU, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Budding Dansper, Developing Relationship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27543667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DominusFero/pseuds/DominusFero
Summary: When on Death's door, the truth always comes out. Except...that is a lie. No one ever truly accepts Death. Not humans and not even the Angels who work alongside it. Life is celebrated, Time is honored and Space is cherished. Death? Death is scorned, hated and despised. How fair is that to the Angel who helps maintain balance, a half to a greater whole.
Relationships: Daniel & David & Gwen & Jasper (Camp Camp), Daniel & David (Camp Camp), Daniel & Gwen (Camp Camp), Daniel & Jasper (Camp Camp), Daniel/Jasper (Camp Camp), David & Gwen (Camp Camp), David & Jasper (Camp Camp), Gwen & Jasper (Camp Camp)
Series: Tales From Demysarria [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991374
Kudos: 1





	Dearly Departed Souls

**Author's Note:**

> Daniel - Angel of Space  
> Jasper - Angel of Time  
> Gwen - Angel of Death  
> David - Angel of Life

Death is infinite in its grasp but finite in its eventuality. Indiscriminate, it calls to the lonely, embraces the ancient, liberates the desperate, and spares the weak. It overpowers the strong, overwhelms the brave, overshadows the bold, and beckons the young. The duality of existence rests on two withered, faded taloned hands. In one rests the positive properties: mercifulness, suddenness, expectedness, blissful tranquility. In the other lies the cold, abhorrent negative properties: unexpectedness, agonizing, torturous, painful suffering. Inescapable and all encompassing, Death favors no one and welcomes all with open arms.

Hanging upside down from the edge of its sector, where land crumbles into tiny bits floating in an endless spatial void unmarred by the dregs of time, the Angel of Death stared out into the infinite sky, entranced in deep thought. When considering the grand scheme of life, it is easy to describe it as a path in which all souls traverse. That is how the Angel of Death perceives mortal life. The Angel sees mortal Each branching fork in the dirt presents options, choices and decisions. These options, choices and decisions lie in the hands of the traveler, or the living soul. Sometimes, the paths taken lead to the eventual demise of the traveler. A full life often spans over several decades, diverging into hundreds of converging pathways that split, narrow or widen among a myriad of selections. At times, these selections are abruptly cut off from what would have been the remainder of the path, and those ends may or may not be what terminates that traveler’s journey prematurely. These hindrances can be likened to several things: a hefty tree blocking the road, a landslide that buries the traveler, or a cliff that crumbled beneath the traveler’s feet. Sometimes, those hindrances are not final, but instead a temporary detour that derails the straightest, forwardmost path. Not all journeys through life are simple, not all journeys through life are easy. Some are the most complex of mazes, twisting and turning so much so that the beginning often feels like the end and the true end seems so far out of reach that it may never come. Some are copies of those that had previously traveled, such as those who repeat the paths laid out for them. But not every soul takes those predetermined paths. What is laid out can often be ignored and new experiences are brought forth to enjoy in their place. Yet it seems impossible of an Angel to stray from its guided path.

Releasing its grip from the crumbling dirt and grass that made up its reversed perch, the Angel of Death launched itself forward with a great leap. Its large lavender wings spread open, carrying it aloft in a graceful manner. On Death’s wings the Angel rode, soaring high above its sector. In the dreary bleeding sky, its dark silhouette stood out in sharp contrast against the blistering sun. There it hung, in the wake of the setting sky, surveying its kingdom from afar. Then, its wings collapsed as the Angel dove towards the ground. Soundlessly, the Angel touched down with a whisper of the grass. 

The Angel strolled about its great landscape, the grass beneath its feet burning upon contact. With each step, a charred footpoint lay imprinted in the drying dirt, dust forming as the ground lost its will to survive. Seeing this upset the Angel. It longed to be able to rid itself of the stench of Death. All living things died upon its touch and those that had sentience fled upon its presence. Bending over, the Angel of Death plucked a plant by the roots from the still living grass beside it. Almost immediately the flower in the Angel’s cold hands dried up. What had been a lively bloom was now the dusted, wrinkled, shriveled decayed mess of brown remains that had once been a red chrysanthemum. Picking at the curling petals with its claws, the Angel sighed in defeat, iridescent violet eyes drooping in misery.

Why, why had its existence been cursed so? Why choose it of all possible creations? Why damn its immortal being so that it will never know the feeling of being wanted, of being touched or of being loved? The crippling loneliness that envelopes each and every day in a suffocating cloak of dark solitude left the Angel entrapped in an abysmal pool of inky blackness. None of its fellow Angels ever sought to remedy its pain nor did the Angels ever attempt to even question why it seldom made appearances. The wayward souls of the dead were far better company. The dead may hold many secrets but it was no secret that the Angel longed for a voice to talk to.

Studying the crumpled chrysanthemum, the expressionless face beneath the hooded cloak seemed to stare through the item in its hand. The ground itself seemed to harbor more answers for an Angel that was deeply conflicted. It was torn between facing dull acceptance of its power or willfully abandoning it in search of a higher purpose. Angels were not supposed to question their missions, their existences, their powers. Angels were mindless drones conjured by the God of Creation to lord over the four principles of existence. And yet, the Angel of Death felt unfulfilled in its destiny, as if there were more to its fate than upholding any and all of its responsibilities. Wispy petals began to slip through the Angel’s fingers, fluttering to the nutrientless dirt below. A petal for love. A petal for happiness. A petal for acceptance. A petal for friendship. Torn from the head of the flower and lost to the dirt and grime of the cold muck below.

A soft blue film cast over the Angel’s eyes, the violet darkening to a shade of indigo. Its chest felt heavy with a pounding, grinding sensation as though seeing those petals fall had somehow robbed it of those very things. But out of all those lost things, what the Angel desired most was touch. It wanted to experience touch, feeling the embrace of another without having the lingering anxiety looming over its head. It needed to experience touch so that it could feel accepted so that the dark nightmares of woe and decay would finally fade. It craved touch, having observed its fellow Angels bond in ways it never could.

It saw the way the Angel of Space stared longingly at the Angel of Time, its cyan colored eyes drooping with a listless, whimsical gaze. Something about its ally had stolen the Angel of Space’s attention to where all it seemed to desire was its cohort’s presence. The Angel of Death saw how each slight touch, each brush of limb on limb, each turn of the head from the Angel of Time captured the Angel of Space. The Angel seemed to be held prisoner within an invisible forcefield, unable to—or unwilling to break free. Was it a secret, unknown power or was it something more? Blended into the shadows, the Angel of Death clung to the darkness as it spied on its allies. The two Angels were seated in the grass discussing a topic of unknown origin. The Angel of Space had the Angel of Time’s head in two of its hands, combing its fingers through the other’s hair. The eyes of the Angel of Time were closed, its own hands folded on top of its chest. The pair looked so peaceful, so tranquil. And the look in the cyan colored eyes of the Angel of Space was something of dreams. In those eyes, the Angel of Death could see a strange mix of positive emotions. What looked like contentment and yearning rested in that smiling gaze and the Angel swore it had never seen its ally happier. If only it could convince another soul to see itself in the same light. If only  **_anyone_ ** would see it in that same light.

It had once thought the Angel of Life would show some form of understanding. After all, it was the only Angel with the capacity to love. Or so all the Angels believed. The Angel of Life was always smiling, always bestowing gifts, always filling the air with warmth amid misery. Demysarria would be a cold, cruel world without the joy that this core Angel brought. In fact, what exactly would Demysarria be without any of the other Angels. Demysarria needed Space for occupation, Time for things to flourish and change, and Life to fill it. Whatever did it need Death for? What good was Death when all it ever did was take, take, take. The only thing it ever gave was a sense of despair like everything would fall apart. The Angel of Death had once thought that its opposite would try to make amends for the wrongs the human passed onto it. It had once thought that perhaps an immortal soul would be more easily forgiving. What a fool it had been.

Crushing the remnants of the deceased flower in its claws, the Angel of Death furrowed its violet eyes in contempt as the dust passed through its fingers. Life was so fleeting, trapped within the simplest of forms destined to one day be snuffed out by the greater powers that be. But that was all the Angel was, was it not? The smothering cloud of incalculable darkness that swallows the faintest of lights whole, enveloping those smoldering wicks in its leathery lilac wingspan. That was all the Angel was: a final culmination to a grandiose scheme in which the cycles of being eventually slow until their eventual halt. And it only worsened the Angel’s demeanor.

What was this feeling, deep down in the Angel’s chest? It felt crushing yet hollow, leaving sentiments of emptiness stewing within. It knew better than to believe it would ever truly be appreciated. Anger boiled over within the Angel, the air around it quickly becoming stagnant and dry. The grass under its feet dried up, fading from bright, lovely, lively green to a sad, pitiful, dirty brown. Aged and decayed, the flood of brown rapidly spread like water flowing across a tile floor. Its lavender wings fanned out with  **_fwump_ ** , arched towards the sky. It wanted to scream, to howl out all its frustrations as to why, why why it was so hated. But it knew. The Angel had always been heartbreakingly aware as to why it was scorned, at least by humans. All attempts to justify the actions of others were futile, never would any human ever find the courage to welcome Death without becoming overwhelmed with fear. The longer the Angel dwelled on its exile, the angrier it became. Why? Because it always came last.

Humans praised Life. Always begging to hold onto what little of it that remains, always thanking it for seeing them through the darkest of times. It was not the Angel of Life who let them live, it was the Angel of Death turning a blind eye or following the word of its leader. That blissfully ignorant ball of wood and flora was not to thank! Humans thrived on the concept of creating life. How else were more humans to replace the ones who had died? Some humans lived only to create more humans. And sometimes those new humans brought more pain than joy, even before being birthed from the womb. And who remedied the situation when all was at a loss? Not the Angel of Life. Sometimes, a human bearer had to die so the human child could live. Sometimes, it was the reverse. The Angel of Life would never dare face such a controversial decision. It could never fathom the stress and anxiety such power presented. And yet humans worshipped the miniscule gifts Life gave. But never Death. It was shunned, discarded and cast aside. Though ask any human and it would tell you otherwise.

Humans proclaimed to accept Death whenever the chance of survival is slim but it was always a boldfaced lie. Rarely did a human ever die willingly, even when the Angel offered its hand. Except for some. Children seemed to be the bravest of the mortals, taking the guiding hand without question and allowing themselves to be lifted into the Angel’s arms. Despite the cruel nature of stealing a child from a short cycle, the children seemed to embrace the Angel more than their adult counterparts. Children would rest their heads on the Angel’s shoulders, squeeze its hand and smile through tears. Some were too fascinated by its form to even recognize they were no longer living. Was it wrong to admit that it liked the fascination the dead children held for it? Children were always so innocent, so loving, so accepting. Was it wrong to relish the moments in which these poor souls realized that they were not alone? By no means did the Angel want to take the lives of children, by far that was the one responsibility it had that it loathed most. The living human child it helped to care for now, it was amazed at how it held no fear. And when the two had first met, the Angel had tried to flee for the boy’s safety. Never would the Angel ever wish to bring death to a child. Never, not even if it was the child’s time to pass on.

But there were moments in which the Angel felt pride in its work. Giving gentle caresses on the children’s faces as they take their last breath, allowing their weary souls to rest their heads upon its shoulders, sharing in the tender hugs their minds would pressure them to give and the precious hand holding as it led them through the gilded gates to Demysarria. Those were the moments that left the Angel feeling warm, bright sensations that nearly conquered the self-loathing all on its own. Yes, it hurt the Angel to know the young were so ready and willing to leave, but it had to remember that it was all a part of the God of Creation’s ultimate plan. Its leader had a reason for everything, even if no one, not even its disciples could see it. Yes, their journeys had yet to begin but had somehow come to an end. It was bitter but at the same time, it was oddly sweet. The Angel relaxed some, momentarily distracted. Was there a name for that type of feeling?

Looking off into the sea of transparency and white outlines, the Angel wondered whether or not the denizens of Demysarria truly were happy to have this realm to call home. The moment that thought passed, disgust bubbled in the Angel’s chest. Why in all of the infinite realms did the opinions of pitiful humans matter? Why at all were their measly thoughts so important? It is the Angel of Death! Guardian of all dearly departed souls! Caretaker of the ill, the weak, the dying! Its powers and abilities were far beyond human comprehension, superior to that of a lowly mortal in every conceivable way. And yet...it found itself pained by their fear and hurt by their hate. In a way, the Angel understood. Humans are aware of their mortality. Humans are aware of the presence of uncontrollable, dynamic, ethereal forces. Humans are aware of the unknown and it is their awareness that leads to their fear. Imagine being aware of the unstoppable cease of existence that every single organic being faces, unable to halt or prolong it. Imagine knowing it could arrive at any time, in any form, with or without warning. Imagine knowing it could be obscenely agonizing. Would that not drum up or instill a phobia of incredible proportions?

The Angel supposed so because what would it know about mortality? It is an immortal whose sole purpose was to bring balance to the universe through the commencement of death. It feared no one entity, it had no foreseeable demise or weakness. Nothing could kill it other than its creator but then, what was the point behind doing that? The balance would be upset and reality would cease to be. What could an Angel offer on how to handle mortality when it has never known true fear in its entire life?

Gazing out into the vast horizon of its sector, the Angel of Death’s mind slowly began to wander into a cold, lonely, isolating chasm of inescapable darkness. A distressing despondency sunk its icy tendrils into the Angel’s back, filling its corporeal form with melancholy, anxiety and worry. Why did its fellow Angels seem to harbor a subtle disdain towards it? What had it ever done other than exist to make the others feel as though it were a plague upon their existences? The other Angels may not be aware that the Angel of Death knows of their displeasure but then again, its knowledge may not be of their concern. The Angel of Death has seen the way in which their hands slowly fall away from its own, stuck to their sides firmly and flat. It has seen the way their bodies curve slightly away from its own, rigid and stiff like statues. It could be misconstrued, it could be that perhaps the Angel is assuming malice when all it may have been was the rigorous structure from the way in which the Angels were supposed to carry themselves. Hopefully, being sculpted into mindless, orderly drones was to blame for the behavior of its peers and nothing more. Yes, yes, that was what it must be. Except...it could not be.

The gazes the others give fall short of its face, appearing to be looking through the Angel rather than into its eyes. Never once have the others ever clung to its body like they cling to one another, like all bodies cling to the warmth and softness of the Angel of Life. Never did the others ever venture into its sector unless ordered to by the God of Creation. Willfully, the other Angels traversed into the Angel of Life’s sector, partaking in its fruits, its plants, its cultures. There was nothing but barrenness and bleakness within its own sector, only a sparse few souls wandering about the realm. And what did the Angel of Life do that the Angel of Death did not? Each was crucial in the handling of mortal cycles: one gave life, the other took it away. Each managed the journeys: one raised new souls to venture out into the open world, the other brought those tired souls home. Obviously, neither was more important than the other and neither differed in any way.

Only…

They  _ were _ different. Radically different. Monumentally different. One was full of sunshine, love, happiness and tranquility. The other was full of darkness, decay, melancholy and turmoil. One was adored and worshipped. The other was hated and despised. One was embodied by brightness and an array of color. The other was drowned in darkness and an abundance of black. Opposites in nature, opposites in value, and sadly, opposites in favor. But was hatred, contempt, rage—were those truly something the Angel of Life could even feel? It never appeared to be. 

Once, the Angel of Life had been tending to one of the vast fields of flowers in its sector. Spawning from the shadows, the Angel of Death perched on a small shelf in the upper portion of the valley. It liked to see what new creations its ally had grown, admiring the rainbow of colors and taking in the beauteous scent of new breeds. The Angel of Life had seen the suncast shadow of the other looming overhead and turned to wave in greetings. Briefly turning back to the field, the Angel crouched momentarily, its claws obscured by its body. It then faced the Angel of Death once again, wearing what appeared to be a pleased smile. Thick, spiked vines began to break the ground apart, rising beneath the Angel’s feet. As the serpentine vines grew taller, the plants raised the Angel up to the ledge on which its ally sat. Once the two were on equal ground, the Angel of Life presented its findings to the Angel of Death. In its hands it held a single flower, a new breed of rose from what the Angel of Death could see. Rich ebony intertwined with elegant violet forming brilliant striations in the petals. The stem was coarse based upon the textured appearance of the plant and adorned with charcoal tinted thorns. Its grower looked so pleased, beaming at how lovely the fruits of its labor had become and was equally prideful of how easily it captured attention. Mesmerized by the intricacies of the flower, the Angel of Death took in the scent of the rose. Candied like vanilla with a hint of spice...what was that positively intoxicating aroma called again? Oh, rosemary! Yes, rosemary was what the humans would call it. It smelled of vanilla and rosemary. Odd for a plant but then again, humans had associated another with the stench of death. But the absolute wonder in the Angel of Death’s eyes, it was clear that it had never seen something so enthralling in its existence. Entranced, it raised its left hand to gently caress one of the petals. Soft black brushed against hard, twisted roots. 

A mistake. An accident. 

A small section of the Angel’s wooden claw began to grey where the two had touched. As the color faded, the wood began to rot, breaking off into clumps. The ebony-violet rose, pinched between root-like fingers, fell with a soft, dusty  **plop** to the rock. Violet eyes wide in alarm, the Angel of Death began to reach forward to offer aid before realizing it may cause more harm than good. Its hands slowly retreated, searching for some form of reaction from the Angel of Life. With great pain in its eyes, the Angel looked up in fear. The expression in the other Angel’s face was unreadable though it appeared to be more confused than upset. Viridian met violet, the light within still glowing ever so strong. The two held a shared stare, no words spoken between them.

And suddenly, the Angel of Death melted into the shadows, leaving the Angel of Life alone.

Looking back on the situation now, internally, the Angel pondered what might have transpired had it stayed. It had yet to ever interact with the Angel of Life individually since then and it believed it knew better than to try again. Undoubtedly, its ally must be angry and understandably so. The sanctity of its sector had been violated, its privacy revoked. Its own flesh had fallen from its body, ruined and decayed. It had every right to be angry as that was all the Angel of Death was good for. Causing pain and misery, death and decay, tragedy and grief. Nothing good. Never anything good. Not a single soul, mortal or immortal, desired any form of connection. And for what? Something entirely out of its control. It fully believed that its existence was the reason behind their unrequited, tenuous resentment. The concept of a single being harboring all the power to end any and all beings that come into contact with it, without so much as a single thought or gesture, was terrifying. At least, if it were an enemy. And yet, it is not. Its allies seemed to fear it far too much to remain at its side any longer than necessary. Though immortal, the exact extent of the Angel of Death’s power was unknown, and no Angel was daring enough to test it. So, they flee.

Cold acceptance washed over the Angel of Death. Iridescent violet eyes were no longer aglow with optimism, expectation or emotion. Those tired, violet eyes that had seen countless tragedies remain unmoving, distant and faded. The Angel of Death had come to terms with the conditions of its role. If no one would ever come to love it, what good would having any form of emotion be without anyone to share them with. Why it felt this way, the Angel was unsure of but it did know this: it had never felt more...dissatisfied.

**Author's Note:**

> The flowers hold symbolism. Comment if you think you know their representations.


End file.
